Escape It All
by swanssong
Summary: After the death of his fiancée, Killian loses his will to resume any sort of functional existence. When he begins to spiral out of control, an old friend shows up and drags him out of his misery. ((Trigger warning for substance abuse))


**A/N: This has been written since February, but I decided I might as well post it for CS AU week. This was inspired by the song "Medicine" by Daughter, which is a good song to listen to if you want to be really depressed.**

 ***trigger warning* this story contains drug/alcohol abuse. Also, I apologize for any inconsistencies in that matter, as I don't have firsthand experience with it.**

* * *

It has been fourteen days since Milah had drawn her last breath.

Today was supposed to be the day of their wedding.

Instead, Killian Jones is drowning himself in half a bottle of Captain Morgan.

Immediately after his fiancée dropped dead seemingly out of nowhere (but it hadn't been, according to the doctors; her heart more or less _disintegrated_ , thanks to a condition no one had even known she'd had), Killian didn't sleep for three days. When he tried, he saw nothing but her face. The first time Killian dreamt of Milah after her death, he had vomited the entire contents of his stomach into the toilet. Once the sleeplessness started disorienting him—peculiar spots of light appearing in his vision and the sound of quiet, phantom music seemingly always present in the background—Killian turned to one of the large glass bottles stocked at their wet bar.

He has always been a passionate man, throwing every fiber of his being into something he holds dear. His relationship with Milah had been a prime example. She was the light of his world. As far as he was concerned, the sun rose and set with her smile. And now she is gone, taking the light with her. His whole world is plunged into darkness.

Killian takes another pull from the bottle, barely feeling the burn as he swallows the amber liquid.

As it turns out, the burn of spiced rum could only dull his heartbreak a satisfying amount for a few weeks. After a certain period, his body has gotten used to the burning numbness and compensated, filling his heart with darkness and his throat with bile at the very thought of his lost love. And it just so happens he can't think about a damn thing other than her. His days and nights are filled with nothing but despair at his lost future, his lost _home_ , his lost life. Killian is vaguely aware that he is supposed to be grieving in some other way. He's supposed to be "moving on". The mere idea of resuming an ordinary, happy life after _her_ is so incomprehensible it's laughable. Life as he knows it is over. Uncaring about resuming his routine with any semblance of normalcy, Killian quits his job (or rather, stops going to work entirely and doesn't bother returning any phone calls from the company) and ceases contact with everyone other than the liquor store vendor and deliverymen.

Eventually, his friends learn to leave him alone. The calls from them grow fewer and farther between. And then he is truly alone.

One night, Killian finds a bottle of oxycodone in his medicine cabinet, left over from Milah's surgery the previous year (she'd injured a ligament in her ankle from running). He's out of rum and knows there's no way he'll sleep without it, so Killian shrugs and swallows a couple of the pills, quickly falling asleep.

The following night, he repeats the process, relishing in the way the pills allow him to relax completely. For the first time in the two months since Milah's death, he sleeps without the haunting memory of her face.

He starts taking a pill during the day, when the anxiety gets to him and causes his limbs to shake. He realizes he should probably stop taking the pills (or at least stop mixing them with rum), but the heady sedation and lack of pain make it too tempting to stop.

(He runs out once and panics at the sweating, nausea and confusion that sets over him. Luckily, he finds a man selling the pills in an alley beside his liquor store, and Killian makes sure he never lets himself run out again.)

* * *

x

* * *

Emma Swan knocks at his door for what feels like the fifth time. "Come on, Killian. Get your ass up."

If she listens carefully, she can hear vague sounds of life on the other side of the door. "I swear to God, open this door or I'll fucking kick it in. You know I can." She swallows against the rage burning in her chest (anger has always been an easier coping mechanism for her than whatever the hell her friend was doing to himself right now).

Just as she's stepping back to make good on her promise, she hears more distinct shuffling coming from inside her friend's apartment and pauses.

"Fuck off, Swan," he croaks upon opening the door. Emma barely has time to take notice of his flushed chest and bloodshot eyes before he tries to slam the door shut once more.

She wedges the toe of her book between the door and its frame, stopping the wood from fully separating them. Killian doesn't appear to be surprised at her inability to leave him alone. He turns his back on the still open door and hobbles over to the couch, resuming what Emma supposes was his previous position. She stalks over, yanks up his legs and sits herself down beneath him. "You can't get rid of me that easy."

"Course not," he mumbles, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because how would Emma Swan bloody _survive_ if not for the ability to annoy a man to death?"

"David may be too nice to come up here and whip your ass in to shape, but I'm not. And I'm not taking any of your bullshit today." She shoves his legs off of hers pointedly, forcing him into an upright position. "Get up."

"Leave me the fuck alone," he hisses.

Emma rips the bottle from his grip and stomps over to the sink, draining the remaining rum.

"The bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he shouts, pulling her back by her wrist.

"Time for you to sober up. Go take a shower, Killian. You smell."

His expression is somewhere between a sarcastic smile and a sneer. "So sorry to be such an inconvenience, Swan. Perhaps you should get the bloody hell out of my apartment so you don't have to worry about the stench."

She rolls her eyes humorlessly before grasping his wrist as he has just done to her and drags him towards his bathroom. "I'm not kidding. Get your ass in the shower."

"If I do, will you leave?"

"We'll see," she answers, slamming the door.

She sighs in mild relief as the sound of running water begins. Emma turns towards his kitchen and pulls an empty trash bag from the cabinet beneath his sink, unceremoniously stuffing scattered trash into the bag. His kitchen and living room are cluttered with an assortment of empty liquor bottles (rum seems to be his drink of choice), half-eaten take out containers, and crumpled shirts.

Well, at least he hasn't been sitting in the same clothes the past three months.

She tidies the place as she tosses garbage in the bag, and stops when she comes across an empty bottle.

"Jesus Christ, Killian," she whispers under her breath as she reads the label. Their whole group of friends knows about the drinking; at Milah's funeral, he was all glassy eyes and slurred words. This is something else entirely.

She rifles through the bag she's begun filling, cursing under her breath as she spots a couple of plastic bags—empty save for the powdery residue—stashed among a pizza box and cartons of Chinese.

Killian exits his bathroom wrapped only in a thick grey towel immediately after Emma's discovery. He glances at her and stops in his tracks, eyes frozen at the bottle still clutched in her hand.

She doesn't even bother saying anything, just raises an eyebrow and glares in his direction, waiting for him to try and explain away the narcotics.

Killian swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing down his throat and turns, slamming his bedroom door behind him.

A few minutes later, he emerges clad in a dark grey, waffle-knit Henley and worn black sweatpants. "I believe you have something you'd like to say?" he asks expectantly, his eyes completely devoid of emotion.

She shrugs and folds her hands, leaning on top of his kitchen counter. "Nope."

His jaw tenses. "Really? Emma Swan with nothing to say? You're not here to berate me then? Tell me I'm not grieving properly?"

"There's no proper way to grieve, Killian. Though there may be a couple wrong ways to go about it. Substance abuse for instance."

His eyes narrow, loathing replacing the emptiness. "You have no idea what I've been through."

"You're right," she agrees. "I haven't. Because you won't answer my calls. Or David's. Or anyone's for that matter." She swallows back the harshness and tries to calm herself. "You can't isolate yourself like this, Killian."

"Bugger off." Killian reaches into one of his cabinets and pulls out a fresh bottle of whiskey, pouring it into a glass tumbler. "Drink?" he offers sarcastically.

"Milah would be disgusted by this. You know that."

He slams the glass down on the counter so forcefully it breaks in his left hand. "Don't you _dare_ tell me how Milah would react to this." Emma notices a trickle of blood sliding along the shards of glass still clutched in his hand. "You have no right."

"And you have no right to completely soil her memory by drinking yourself into oblivion, adding Oxy into the mix when the liquor gets boring," she bites back, ripping two paper towels off the roll by the sink and closing the distance between them. "You two had plans. She's gone now. I know that. But you are not." Emma gently pries his fingers from the glass, giving him an apologetic look when he winces at her touch.

"I don't know how to be here," he whispers brokenly. "I don't know how to exist in a world where she doesn't."

Emma keeps her eyes trained on his hand, methodically searching the wound for any pieces of glass and swallowing back the tears threatening to well in her eyes. "I know," she whispers.

Emma manages to rinse his cut palm with water (figuring the whiskey in his glass disinfected the wound well enough) and wraps it in a bandage without any complain on Killian's behalf. The rest of the night continues without a word uttered between the two of them. Emma puts the nearly full bottle of whiskey in the bag of garbage sitting at his door as Killian sits himself in front of the television, staring at the screen with glassy, unseeing eyes. She joins him on the couch with two glasses of water, vaguely registering that some aggressively idiotic bromance comedy is playing. Killian drinks the water wordlessly, eyes staying on the screen in front of them until he nods off.

At the sound of his rhythmic breathing, Emma quietly stands, drapes a thick blanket over her friend, and goes to take out the trash.

"David, it's me," she says to her brother's answering machine. "Listen, I know it's late, but I just wanted to let you know I'm staying at Killian's tonight. We've let this shit go on long enough. I found a few empty bottles of oxycodone in his apartment this evening. He hasn't been himself in months. It's time we change that.

"If you could please stop by my place sometime tomorrow and bring me some clothes, my toothbrush, my glasses and my contact stuff, that would be wonderful. I'm gonna wait this out until he sobers up. Then we'll see what we can do to help get him back on his feet. Talk to you later," she hangs up the phone before reentering Killian's apartment. Padding into his bathroom, she washes her face and gets ready for bed as well as she can. She debates wearing some of Milah's clothes to sleep in rather than her leather jacket and jeans (it wouldn't be the first time), but rejects the idea quickly. Not only would that undoubtedly send Killian into a fit of rage immediately upon his awakening, Emma isn't quite sure she can stomach the familiar smell of her now dead friend lingering on her pajamas.

In the end, she borrows one of Killian's old band t-shirts that's long enough to cover the tops of her thighs. She steals a pillow from his bed and grabs a blanket from the linen closet. She swallows against the lump forming in her throat as she considers her friend. She can handle his rage and anger. What she wasn't prepared for was the utter brokenness she saw in him. His face in sleep is still wrinkled with distress; apparently he can't even find relief from his agony when he's unconscious. Without his trademark sultry smirk and playful smile, Emma could hardly recognize her old friend the whole time she spent with him.

Before she drifts off to sleep, Emma vows that she will find a way to bring back the Killian she knows and loves. For the memory of her lost friend.

* * *

Emma wakes up to the sound of banging cupboards and shuffling feet. She lifts up her head, squinting in the early morning light to see Killian frantically searching his kitchen. "Killian, what the hell?"

He pauses his search and looks up at her, face filled with desperation. "Swan, have you seen my pills?" His voice is hoarse and his hands are shaking violently.

Emma takes a deep breath. "Killian, you need to sit down and take some deep breaths. I'll get you some water and Tylenol."

He shakes his head and continues his search. "That won't do. I need my pills. They are the only thing that helps."

Emma gets up and stops him, gently clasping his hands between hers. "They won't help. Not really. You're withdrawing, Killian. Taking the pills will just delay this. It won't make it go away."

His chest moves up and down rapidly with his ragged breath and he tries to withdraw his clammy hands from hers. "They will though," he assures her. "I just need to find them." He pulls away and resumes his search, this time venturing to the living room and looking under couch cushions. Emma watches on, chewing on her bottom lip, unsure of what to do. She's never exactly tried to help someone detox from drugs before.

When he pulls out a plastic baggie with a few pills in it, he makes a triumphant noise and moves to grab his glass of water from the end table next to it. Emma quickly closes the distance between them and grabs his hands again. "Wait," she urges him. "You don't need to take those. We need to get you clean. Don't you wanna get back to your old life? You've gotta be running short on money by now. I can help you get your old job back, or maybe get a new one, but you can't do that if you're high."

"I'm not short on cash, I have Milah's life insurance to live off of. And frankly, I'm not interested in a shivering shaking mess," he grumbles, looking away from her face.

"Killian, come on. This isn't you," she begs him softly. "Don't take the pills. It doesn't need to be like this."

"Everything hurts, Emma. I _need_ them, can't you see? I'm not okay without them. Please," he whispers, the despair in his eyes crushing her heart.

"Then let's take you to the hospital. I'm pretty sure you can detox there and they can give you something for your symptoms and make you more comfortable," she says, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him to her. "Please," she mumbles into the cold sweat-dampened shirt he's wearing.

"How about I just finish the bag, yeah?" he asks. "That way all of them will be gone. And we can go tomorrow."

"That's really not a good idea. Please. The pills may make you numb, but this will make you better. Don't you want to be able to feel again? To experience real life?"

"The love of my life is gone. I don't want to feel anything. Why do you think I take these damn things in the first place?" He pulls back from her embrace and grabs his cup of water, downing the pills before she can stop him.

She curses, clawing at her hair. "Goddammit, Killian. You're not making this any better."

"How many times do I need to tell you before you get it through your thick skull? I don't bloody want to get better. Feel free to leave, now," he retorts, wrapping himself up in a blanket and stalking off to his bedroom.

* * *

By the time Killian finally returns from his room about seven hours later, David and Mary Margaret have arrived to help Emma.

"Killian, what can we do to get you to agree to go to the hospital with us and detox?" Mary Margaret asks with soft authority.

He stares at her for a moment. "I'm sorry, lass, but I don't know what you're talking about. I'm doing fine. I don't need to go to the hospital."

Emma glares at him. "You downed a bunch of pills and passed out for _hours_. You're not doing fine. You need help."

"You're wrong," he spits at her, though the energy behind his words is lacking. "I don't know what I have to say or do to convince you of the fact, but I have been getting along just fine the past few months without you lot. And I don't want you here. So go." He opens the door that leads out of his apartment and gives them an expectant look.

"If you come with us and the doctors say the same thing you're saying after an assessment, we will do as you say." Emma has no idea how her sister-in-law maintains this soft, calm exterior while she's about ready to scream at the man (though it probably has something to do with the fact she spends her days with eight year olds).

Killian just stands there, silently fuming at them and clenching his jaw until David places his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Do you mind leaving the two of us alone for a minute?" he asks Emma and Mary Margaret. "I think it would be good if the two of us had a moment alone.

Emma squints at him in confusion but lets the other woman drag her off towards Killian's study.

"Did you know it was this bad?" she asks on a whisper.

Emma shakes her head. "I had no idea about the oxy until I was cleaning up his apartment yesterday night. I did have my suspicions that he was trying to drink himself into oblivion, though," Emma admits.

Mary Margaret sighs and smooths down Emma's hair before pulling her into an embrace. "I'm so sorry you were here alone. That had to have been very difficult."

Emma shrugs awkwardly. "It was fine. I just… I just don't really know how to deal with this, you know? I don't exactly have a history with drug addicts. Not more than carting them off to the courthouse after they've skipped bail, that is."

"I know what you mean. I don't see too many of them at work either," she deadpans, causing Emma to smirk reluctantly. "But David has an old family friend who works as a psychiatrist and he advised us this morning on what to do. I know you and Killian are close, but David might be better at talking him into this."

"What do you mean?"

Mary Margaret shrugs with a sad smile. "The two of you are too much alike. You're both so hot-headed I don't know if you could get through a normal conversation without yelling at each other, much less convince him to clean himself up all of the sudden." Emma looks away as the woman takes her hand gently. "I know this is hard for you, and I know you care about him. But you have to realize Killian has given up hope. The very idea of hoping for any resemblance of a happy ending is not going to be easy for him to accept."

Emma raises an eyebrow at that. "I get that. I'm not so sure I buy into the idea of a 'happy ending' either. This is real life, not a fairy tale. People die. Bad shit happens. The world is a horrible place. But giving up isn't going to help any of that. At the rate he's going, Killian is going to end up homeless, in jail, or dead. Milah would _kill_ us if we didn't do something about this."

"I agree with your sentiment," Mary Margaret assures her, "though it may be a bit morbid. We'll find a way to fix this, Emma. I know we will."

Eventually, Killian agrees to check himself into the hospital to detoxify for the oxycodone, though Emma suspects it's only because he doesn't think Mary Margaret and David will leave his place until he concedes. And he's probably not wrong. They do, however, leave an hour after the four of them get Killian checked in and settled in his room. They left their three-month-old son Neal home with a new babysitter and Mary Margaret was itching to get back to him.

Emma however doesn't leave. It's a Saturday evening and she's got nothing better to do. Besides, Killian looks so scared and small in the starched hospital bed under the bright lights. She doesn't think she has the heart to leave him here alone if she tried.

"You don't have to stay here," he mumbles, not looking up from the book he's been skimming for the past ten minutes.

Emma looks up at him in surprise. "What?"

Killian sighs deeply. "It's a Saturday. I doubt your weekend plans would be very accommodating of an evening sitting in a silent hospital room under fluorescent lights."

"My weekend plans were to get you out of your apartment, so actually you're wrong." She looks around the room pointedly. "It looks like I'm doing an excellent job of maintaining my plans. Although I'm not so sure how fun it's gonna be to sleep on that couch," she admits, eyeing the sterile-looking sofa behind her in distaste.

A shadow of a real smile crosses his face (the first one she's seen from him in months). "Well done, Swan. It seems you can accomplish anything, so long as you set your mind to it."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you going to start speaking in clichés now?"

"I haven't decided. It _does_ seem the exact sort of thing an ex-drug user would do." His tone is almost playfully nonchalant, but it doesn't hide the pain and shame that flickers across his face.

"Ahh, I see. You're not _speaking_ in clichés; you're _becoming_ one."

He makes a face at her. "What I become is none of your business."

She chuckles humorlessly. "That's where you're wrong, Jones. Because I'm making it my business. You see, I'm in this for the long haul. I'm gonna be here, bugging you to death all the time until you're so motivated to be clean, I have nothing to bother you about."

Killian slumps back against his pillows tiredly. "That sounds more like you're going to annoy me right back into the bottle."

Emma glares at him for a long moment until he finally cracks open an eye and looks at her. "Don't joke about that. I'm here to help you, Killian. I know we typically do rub each other the wrong way, but I don't want that to be how it is for us. I'm here for you. And I'm gonna try to be supportive."

"I don't want to be your charity case, Swan," he says softly.

"Oh, shut up. You're not my charity case. You're my friend. Me wanting to be here and wanting to help you get to a better place isn't charity at all."

He scoffs in mock disbelief. "It's not?"

"Nope. In fact, it's purely selfish. Like 90% of our friends are off busy with things like kids. They're all serious all the time now. I need my partner in crime back."

Emma almost cries in relief when she sees his familiar smirk grow across his face. "I'm not so sure that we could be considered partners in crime. Partners in mischief, perhaps."

She smiles. "Fine, partners in mischief it is."

* * *

 **A/N: If you guys are interested in reading more of this, let me know. I have an idea where the story would go after this.**


End file.
